The Body Institute

by Carol Riggs

  How embarrassing to be lectured about my regimen. I mumble an agreement, and hang up before I say something I’ll regret later. He could’ve warned me about this residual memory stuff. Maybe it doesn’t happen often, since not many Reducers live offsite, but I don’t like it. I also don’t like the slight possibility of Jodine ending up with a memory or two of mine, even if I keep all my original memories in my own backup.

  Those memories aren’t something I want to share. They’re mine.

  I wonder if that painting session I saw while in the closet was also a residual. Did any memory flashes happen when I was in Shelby Johnson’s body? I’ll never know. The whole concept of residual waves is more than simply “unnerving,” as Leo calls it.

  But one thing I do know. Jodine is way stellar at Masters of the Cyberverse. She can leap into a tree ten paces from a dragon’s snout and not get incinerated. Though I don’t want her memories, I wouldn’t mind channeling some of that skill and timing.

  Heaving a sigh, I look down at myself. I’d love to ditch this body and go back to my own self, pronto. But I want to help Jodine and be a part of the Institute, and no one said it would be easy. Not even Leo. It’s time to get my chin back up, go downstairs, and work out.

  Maybe I can fit into something different, now that I’ve lost some weight. That’d be a great shot of encouragement. I rummage around and find a grass-green sweat suit. It’s snug across my stomach and thighs when I pull it on, but I’ll go for it. Wearing the same sweats for nearly three straight weeks is beginning to give me navy nightmares.

  I find Mrs. K. in the gym wearing a bright pink tank top and shorts, toning her legs on a resistance machine. She looks quite fit for her age.

  “I can come back later,” I say.

  “No, I’m finished.” Mrs. K. swings into a sitting position. “I’m usually out of here by now, except today I got a phone call—” Her brown eyes go deer-startled. “You’re wearing green. Have you lost that much weight already?”

  “Twelve pounds. These sweats are pretty tight, though.”

  “Where are those navy sweats—in Jodine’s room?” A look of zeal takes over her face. She tears out of the exercise room, knocking over an empty water bottle.

  I frown as the bottle spins on the floor. Has the woman gone crazy? I run after her to see what the massive deal is.

  When I reach the living room, Mrs. K. emerges from Jodine’s room clutching the navy sweats with a ferocious gleam in her eye. I trail her to the kitchen. She marches to the incinerator receptacle, stuffs the sweats inside, and orders it to lock. While the incinerator checks for human tissue and blood to prevent foul play, Mrs. K. spins toward me with a jubilant expression.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this for eight months,” she says. “I was sick of those sweats. They’re the only thing Jodine wore. Her Fat Outfit. I refused to let her buy anything larger, even though it was mortifying to let her go to school that way.”

  “I was pretty tired of them myself,” I say, appalled at her intensity. I’m also appalled that this act of cremation leaves me stranded with the green sweats, which will be uncomfortable until I lose more weight.

  The incinerator gives a rumble and a whoosh, and the navy sweats are history.

  Hands on hips, Mrs. K. glares at the machine. “All Jodine would do was sit around. Read, play games, watch vids, and eat. Those sweats symbolized her laziness. Her failure. I hated them every time I saw them.”

  I take a step backward. Whoa. Talk about intense motherly ire. Poor Jodine.

  Nettie ambles in with a bag of flour and lifts her eyebrows at us.

  “We had a burning ceremony,” Mrs. K. explains. “To celebrate Morgan’s success. She’s fit Jodine’s body into something besides those repulsive navy sweats.”

  “I see,” Nettie says, wisely noncommittal. As Mrs. K. strides out the autodoor, Nettie turns to me. “I could tell you’d lost weight already. Good job.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at the incinerator, and another wave of pity rises up for Jodine. How sad that her mother punishes her for her weight. Mrs. K. also made it sound like Jodine spent all her time in her room, alone. “Doesn’t Jodine have friends to hang with?”

  “One main friend,” Nettie says. “She comes over every week or two, or at least she did before Jodine signed up at the Institute. Shy mouse of a thing, very sweet. A few years ago Jodine had a daily visitor, a loudmouth brat named Noni. I wouldn’t call her a friend. Dr. Kowalczyk ended up forbidding her to come over after some things went missing around the house.”

  Noni, as in the leader of the wolf pack? That’s a shock. But the banishment explains part of Noni’s bristly treatment of Jodine. A lonesome wave splashes over me. “I wish I could see my own friends, Blair and Krista.”

  A memory of Blair’s ten-year-old upturned nose and pixied hair pops into my mind’s eye. One spring day she arrived in reading class, assigned to sit next to Krista and me. We didn’t get much classwork done that morning. We were too busy setting up colonies on our desks with these adorable little cartons of protein-and-fruit snacks from Blair’s backpack. The treats came in the shapes of robots and space shuttles.

  My swell of homesickness rises higher.

  Nettie smiles, and it’s a tender expression. “You can help if you’d like.” She pats the bag of flour on the counter, sending a puff of white upward and the red airbot downward. “I’m making a low-calorie quiche. I’ll let you roll the crust.”

  “Cool.” I’ll hit the gym after we finish.

  Nettie measures flour and instructs me in the fine art of using a rolling pin. I push up my sleeves and plop the dough onto the counter, smiling as the stuff squishes under my fingers. It reminds me of fooling around with play-dough in primary school. Good times. I like experiencing my own memories instead of Jodine’s. That way I know I’m still myself.

  The red airbot filters overhead as I poof flour into the air. The green airbot rushes in from the ceiling vent with a small chirp, ready to help purify the breathing spaces for humankind.

  A few seconds later, I glance up and flinch to see the green bot hovering by my shoulder. “Hey, twerp. What’s your deal?”

  Nettie gives a smirky smile while stirring something aromatic on the stove. “It likes you.”

  “No. Really?” I snort. She makes it sound like the critter is alive.

  “I’ll let you in on a secret. Dr. Kowalczyk had that one re-programmed to react to Jodine. He thought she could use a friend, since she spends a lot of time in her room.”

  My shoulder muscles tense. No way. Its sensors must be really confused, then, unless it’s just responding to my appearance. “It thinks I’m Jodine?”

  “Yes, and she doesn’t have a clue it’s been tweaked. She loves the silly thing.”

  I eye the airbot, trying to imagine what’s going on in its tiny circuitry brain. “It’s cute, but it’s kind of a pest. It keeps invading my personal space.”

  The airbot trills, sounding almost indignant.

  “Here, taste this.” Nettie holds out a wooden spoon with a dab of quiche filling on it. “Does it need more oregano?”

  “I doubt I can tell.” I take a taste anyway. The flavors explode in my mouth, dancing on my tongue. Lusty onion. Fragrant herbed zucchini. A pungent medley of garlic, basil, and oregano.

  And somehow, I know. My taste buds—Jodine’s taste buds—decide for me.

  “Almost perfect,” I say. “It needs this much more.” I grab the jar and shake out a precise dash over the pan.

  As Nettie stirs it in, I stare at my hand and back away.

  Freaky, freaky, freaky. Did some renegade residual memory make me act on autopilot?

  Because that was most definitely not me.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, I walk from the MT shelter to the park, anxious to see if Matt will show up as he promised. Already he’s the lighthouse in my life’s monotonous sea of strenuous exercise. Which is kind of scary, and maybe also pathetic. Poor Matt. He�
��s unwittingly signed on as my one-man social committee. That’ll teach him to be friendly.

  I scan the area while I jog-walk. Where is he?

  One-third into my lap, I spot him ahead on the path. I hurry to catch up, gaining on him easily.

  “Hi, Matt! It’s so sly to see you again,” I call out. No, that sounds too eager. Keep it light and easygoing, girl. I reach him and match his pace. “I’m surprised you showed up, since you had such a hard workout yesterday.”

  Matt gives me an amused look. “I’m serious about losing weight. I even got myself a handy little exercise app, to help nag me on my walks.” He pats the side pocket of his sweatpants, where a phone clip is attached.

  “I have one of those on my phone, too.” Further words flee from my head. I want to be witty and kind, approachable and worthy of being a new friend. If I say something stupid, he might not want to hang out with me.

  “If you live north of here, why do you come to West Park?” Matt asks.

  “Trouble with some classmates. They banished me from North Park.”

  “Is that why you’re not in regular classes?”

  “Yeah.” Mostly and indirectly true.

  He throws me a searching look, a smile playing on his lips as he scans my hair and face. Funnily enough, it’s almost as though he’s checking me out, and liking what he sees. “What other exercising do you do? I take it you haven’t lost a dozen pounds just from park walks.”

  “Nope. I do HoloSports, treadmill, and resistance machines. My, um, parents have those at home. I never used their gym much, up until a few weeks ago.” I chew my lip. I don’t know if I’m crossing a line giving out this info. It implies my Loaner family can afford things like that. So does the tutor fib, actually.

  “I joined a city gym near my apartment.”

  “Nice.” I concentrate on my breathing. There’s a soundless hum between us, a vibrating space that’s empty yet full of something. What is it, mutual interest? Sheer awkwardness? My frail psyche, overly worried about ending up with a big fat zero for a social life?

  I shake my head to dislodge the feeling. Matt mentioned joining the city gym. I wonder if he’d be interested in joining the Reducer program instead. He doesn’t have to go through all this torture himself. Or…maybe I don’t want to tell him. Then someone else would be inside his body, losing weight for him at the Clinic. That’d be the end of my walking buddy.

  After another quarter-lap, he motions to a bench. I sit with him, bunching my legs so our thighs won’t bump this time. I watch a cluster of pigeons peck in the grass, their self-important struts making me smile.

  “Do you like your job at the school?” I ask. Lame question, very lame.

  He shrugs. “It’s a job. I teach nine- and ten-year-olds. It’s more like occasional directing, since the online curriculum does most of the work. All I have to do is play babysitter and keep the little squirrels on task. I’m also getting some reading done, and if I use a portable screen, I can trek around the classroom for exercise at the same time.”

  “That’s smart.” I scuff at the ground with the toe of my sneaker.

  Matt’s impish brown eyes study me. “What about you? After you get your certificate, are you landing a job or going for more education?”

  “Not sure. I might try tech school once I save up enough. Last year in my spare time I worked in a warehouse shipping online orders, like transistors and circuit boards and wiring, but I’d rather have something more challenging.”

  “Me, too. I don’t think I’ll stick with teaching. Not sure yet what else I want to do.”

  “Yeah. Tough to decide.”

  He shifts. I scratch my arm. We watch the pigeons for a few more minutes.

  I clear my throat. Okay, I’m going to ask, for his own good. Because I’m feeling strangely attached to him already, and I care about his ultimate health. If I say this right, maybe it won’t sound rude. “Um, have you ever heard of The Body Institute, and their Reducer program? They have a cool thing going on for weight loss.” I wince. Not subtle, but hopefully inoffensive.

  He grins the biggest grin I’ve seen him make so far, which transforms his face into something quite captivating. “Definitely. They bombard me with zealous ads every time I get a fine notice. But I’ve decided to do this myself. To prove I can.”

  “Impressive,” I say, and mean it.

  Matt glances at his phone. “Whoops, I’d better get going. Class awaits.”

  No way. He can’t leave already. I’m not ready to go back to the efficient emptiness of the Kowalczyks’ personal gym for the rest of the day. “We should walk sometime when you don’t have to run off to classes,” I say on impulse. “Are you done working by around fifteen thirty? On Thursdays I’m here in the afternoon instead of the morning.”

  His grin reappears. It’s dizzying, somehow personal, and directed at me. “I only teach Monday through Wednesdays. So I could meet you here Thursday afternoon. If you want, afterward we can go to a café, and I’ll buy you something low-cal to drink.”

  “That’d be really great.” I keep my voice calm, even though all my nerve endings have sprung into a haywire dance. Awesome! He wants to see me again. An official friendship has been born, despite my bumbling attempts at casual conversation. Who crimping cares what my contract says about not making friends. It’s worth the risk. This guy’s nice, and somehow on my wavelength. What Leo doesn’t know won’t hurt him—er, me.

  I walk the rest of the path with Matt, my steps infused with a bounce. It’s hard to believe, but I have a date of sorts with this teacher guy—and boy-oh-boy, am I looking forward to it.

  In the middle of Wednesday night, the blustery patter of rain hitting my window awakens me. I flop onto my back and moan. No, not rain! It has to stop. Matt might not meet me at the park if the weather is like this. A frown gathers on my forehead as I lie under Jodine’s comforter. The minutes crawl by. As the last shreds of sleep desert me, a mighty rumble starts under my belly button and roars around my abdomen.

  This traitorous body is hungry again. Not merely hungry, but starving. Famished, ravenous, and out-of-control crazy with the desire to bite into something crunchy or creamy or salty. If only I had a big bag of chips. Or a chunk of that drooly-looking lasagna I saw in the freezer yesterday, something Nettie must’ve made before I became a Reducer.

  Yeah, the lasagna!

  I bolt upright, wadding the comforter between my arms. No, wait. I can’t do that. Nettie might wake up if I make noises in the kitchen. I’ll be busted for sure. I also have a Clinic weigh-in tomorrow morning. Very bad timing.

  I lie back down, close my eyes, and try to count sheep. A herd of woolly sheep, standing in a field. The first one jumps over a fence. One. Another one joins it, as fluffy and creamy as the first. Two. A pair of sheep now, standing together with soft ricotta and mozzarella coats, mixed with a little oregano and basil—

  I bunch my pillow over my head. Why so much trouble tonight? I’ve been hungry before and haven’t ever been this close to giving in. My defenses are way down. I know it’s partly from the rain possibly messing up my plans to meet Matt. The other part is doing this job. I’m tired of trying to lose weight, fed up with deprivation and sweating. I miss seeing Granddad and having our cozy book discussions.

  Okay, that does it.

  One small square of lasagna. I’ll be extra quiet. Then I’ll come back to bed and sleep.

  I throw on my robe, pad out the door, and skirt a vacubot attending to the carpet. Its circular lights make it look like a low-flying UFO, snuffling back and forth across the living room. In the kitchen I snag a piece of lasagna and shoot a guilty glance at the autodoor leading to the hall where Nettie’s bedroom is located. I tiptoe to the PlasmaWave and slip my plate inside. The ending beep makes me cringe.

  I listen. Hearing no footsteps, I snatch a fork and a tall glass of chocolate milk, and hustle back to my room. The lasagna goes down like soothing medicine, warming and filling my empty spots. The milk ma
kes a rich, chocolaty finish. I hate doing things I know Jodine has done in her past, since it blurs the line of differences between us, but I can’t seem to help myself. I think I know exactly how she feels living in this house, in this body. The last thing I see before I fall asleep is the round shape of the green airbot drifting over the stuffed animals on the window seat.

  Morning comes too early. My room alarm chides me, sounding freakishly like Mom.

  “Wake up. Third reminder,” it says with zeal. “Thirty minutes past initial alarm.”

  “Turn off,” I growl. I sit up and push a tangled mass of hair away from my face and neck. My stomach sloshes. Worse, the memory of my midnight failure sits like a horrible weight in my lower gut. How could things as blissfully tasty as that lasagna and that glass of chocolate milk give me this much grief? I’m no better than Jodine, while doing this job in her body. I tromp into the bathroom.

  “You are totally bad,” I scold myself. “You’re stronger than this, I know you are.”

  I spend the morning punishing myself with healthy food and strenuous workouts. By the time I board the MT for my afternoon weigh-in, I feel a little more like I deserve the right to hold the title of Reducer again.

  A man in a business suit flicks me a wary glance as I settle onto a seat. I ignore him by tuning in to some music on my phone, using the built-in earbuds. Since the rain has stopped, I assume all my paranoia last night about not seeing Matt was for nothing. It figures. I fast-forward my thoughts to my upcoming “date.” Let’s see. After I finish at the Clinic and reach the park, we’ll share a sweaty, puffing walk, followed by an awkward chat in a café. Yep, I can live with that.

  It’s a shame Matt and Jodine can’t meet each other in April, although they might not bond as well if they haven’t lost weight together. Hmm, what in the megaverse am I going to tell Matt at the end of my assignment to explain why I won’t be around anymore? I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to see if we’re still hanging out by the end of March.